


221B Doesn't Do Peaceful Mornings

by ACakes



Series: Death, Marriage, and Other Aphrodisiacs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22942318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACakes/pseuds/ACakes
Summary: John's peaceful morning begins to slip when Sherlock opens a discussion of John's impending death, which concludes with a discussion of impending matrimony. (John's POV of Death, Marriage, and Other Aphrodisiacs). Can be read as a one-shot.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Death, Marriage, and Other Aphrodisiacs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645114
Comments: 1
Kudos: 67





	221B Doesn't Do Peaceful Mornings

It’s a peaceful day in 221b, John thinks contentedly. Peaceful is relative though, he must allow. Even on brief peaceful Sunday mornings Sherlock might become dangerously bored and climb, shoot, or otherwise maim the walls. It’s for the best, really. John himself would perish of boredom in a more domestic life.

Today however, Sherlock is languid on the couch, all long limbs and expensive fabric. No, today is not a danger day. The maddening love of his life even deigned to eat some toast and honey this morning. John steals another glance at his flatmate before returning his eyes to the computer screen before him.

John is on his chair, feeling flushed with virtue after puttering about the kitchen and subtly cleaning about the dubiously safe experiments and discarded body parts he’d found there. He’s transcribing the latest case with painstaking care. He’ll never admit to Sherlock that the reason he stubs out words so cautiously is that he feels his hands might betray him and tremble again if he does otherwise. He knows the preponderance of evidence says that life with Sherlock has cured his tremor, but logic and belief are very different things. He knows, too, that continued life with Sherlock is never a guarantee.

He has been lulled into such a calm state by the sounds of the street that he doesn’t look up when Sherlock’s deep voice breaks the quiet.

“John, it is statistically more likely that you will die first”

_Such sweet nothings this morning._

“Mhmm, if we can keep you away from those nicotine patches,” he says, because really, he would like if Sherlock broke that particular habit. He tries not to give any sign of how pleased he is by the idea that Sherlock might outlive him, that he might not have to ever again experience the grasping, shuddering grief of losing Sherlock.

“That being the case, I have a request.”

_Of course you do. Go on, control me beyond the grave._ “Hmm?”

“If you die first, which is more likely as we’ve established, may I have your skull?”

_What are you up to?_ He tries to read Sherlock’s impassive glacial eyes.

“No experiments on it.” He says firmly. He tries not to give in to Sherlock too easily. There is a glimmer of delight on that mercurial face that says he is failing.

“No experiments, John,” Sherlock says quickly “I’d like to replace that one”

One elegant hand encompasses the skull on the mantle, which John now turns to regard with some amusement.

“Will you tell people that I have replaced your friend?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I have one friend, John. Don’t make me repeat things. Dull”

John has to hide the internal smile. He knows this is not true, not really, but he does love the feeling of being important to Sherlock.

“Fine then, but you cannot put bits of me in the fridge.”

_Wouldn’t want to give anyone the nightmare of finding recognizable parts of me lurking about the flat._

“Can I have your hands?”

“Tell you what. If, as we’ve established is more likely, I die first, you can have anything of me you want.”

_Read that_ he thinks _I am in full retreat. Anything Sherlock, have anything…_

“Anything John?” Sherlock says, with his normal uncanny fervor.

What more can he _possibly_ need that John hasn’t given freely? John senses his peaceful morning slipping. Time to go on offense.

“Sherlock! You can talk to my damned solicitor—I’ve already told him to give you everything of mine.”

There’s a light inhale from across the room, and John realizes in a rush that this is overpoweringly emotional, that now even Sherlock will be able to see the crushing weight of the love that overpowers John all the time. _Steady Watson, steady…_

“Who would want your extensive collection of jumpers, John? Even the local nesting birds might disdain some of them,” comes the sardonic rejoinder.

If he were anyone else John might manage to be offended, but he can’t feel anything but bubbling affection for this man who saves him from everything and is now saving him the embarrassment of confessing his love. He giggles, and looks up to catch Sherlock’s answering grin. His heart sinks, then, because in the reflected brightness of that smile, John knows abruptly that it is not enough.

It was the regret of his life before, when he thought Sherlock buried beneath the cold earth, that he hadn’t told him of how he loved him. He’d blamed himself for that, for allowing Sherlock to continue into the world thinking that alone would protect him. John can’t afford any more time with this love burning unseen in his chest.

So when he looks at Sherlock next, it is without hiding the full barrel of that love. He knows that Sherlock, who once read Afghanistan from his gait, will read love from the curve of his lips, from the way his heart warms at the knowledge of Sherlock safely ensconced in 221b. Sherlock has already been the only person in his life to truly see John, and he now unveils anything else there is.

“Right. Since we’re having this discussion…” _here it goes_ “Sherlock, you can have anything of me, living or dead.”

He waits, and is not disappointed. Sherlock’s face is alight with interest. He examines John like a case, like a chemistry problem, like a particularly difficult corpse. John watches those brilliant eyes dance over his own face, and tries not to flinch when Sherlock abruptly stands and stalks toward him.

Then Sherlock’s beautiful talented hands are cupping John’s face, and he looks up, wondering if anyone else has seen Sherlock quite like this, if anyone else has been transfixed by that magnetic stare and fallen headfirst into madness.

Like a dream, those lips are descending to touch his, and John’s lizard brain allows him one brief hysterical thought of _oh, surprisingly warm_ , before Sherlock’s lips light his body aflame.

He manages not to protest when Sherlock removes his lips, beyond “Christ,” and he’s not sure himself what he intends with that enigmatic mention of a higher power. He does have to close his eyes to control the lurch of want and triumph that suffuses him and heats his skin.

When he opens them once more, Sherlock has retreated across the room and is back in his classic repose, and John is chilled.

_An experiment, of course_ he thinks before he can help himself. _More fool me._ He tries to shake it off, tries not to feel like a kicked dog. _Ours not to reason why, Watson. Once more unto the breach._

“So we’re not going to talk about this?” he tries.

He is spared a look. “As you are incapable of deducing, I will have to inform you outright that I love you too.”

It is inexplicable that he has been rendered suddenly deaf and mute at such a time.

_Damn it man, you are a doctor, there_ IS _air in this room._ The air continues to be stubbornly reticent.

“Breathe” Sherlock says helpfully. Beautiful git. Beautiful git who _loves him_.

“You love me--” He can’t help but clarify this point, really, he’s convinced that he has never said these words to Sherlock, he would have remembered…

“Repetition, John…”

“--too? When did I say I love you?”

“Somewhere between the time you shot a cabbie and invented new permutations of the term ‘brilliant’ for me. I have also noticed your pulse races when we touch for a period of greater than thirty seconds”

His mind stalls. He wonders if Sherlock is capable of jump starting it. He knew he was obvious, knew when all of Scotland Yard did, really, he wasn’t a total idiot despite what his flatmate…boyfriend…partner? claimed..

“Oh. Hold on--are we a couple now?” His lips are a little numb, he’s proud of having managed this much. Sherlock is evidently unimpressed, and directs his next words at the wall behind him, turning his face away from John.

“Mycroft, will you send over the marriage license and tell Mummy? Please don’t give her access to a phone, I don’t want to hear the nattering” Sherlock says, and his tone is a little exasperated for a man who is…proposing?

“Hold on! We’re getting married?” It seems unaccountably rude that he would not have known this fact.

“Obvious. I need to make an honest man of you. I would not be surprised if Mycroft has had us married for years. Do keep up”

Sherlock’s brilliant smile removes the sting from his words, which is good because it feels like John is back in the time when he could not keep up with Sherlock. He feels exactly as he did when he could not run after Sherlock with his stupid psychosomatic sodding limp. Once more he’s being left behind, because he sees but does not observe what is happening today. 

John might have died in some fever dream for all he knows…this can’t be real life, he should have known better when he’d thought it was a peaceful morning. 221b doesn’t _do_ peaceful mornings…

“Mm. Right.” He hears himself say distantly.

Then he catches a flying glimmer of metal from Sherlock, and looks, bewildered, at the beautiful ring in his palm. It is white gold, and it has a silver textured seam through the middle. It rests in his coarse palm. He doesn’t think he’s ever been given anything so beautiful, and he feels sure that the brush of his fingers is marring it, but he can’t resist stroking the smooth gleam.

“How long have you had this?”

“Ages, John,” comes the nonchalant response. Dazed, John slips it onto his left finger, pleased that something warmed by Sherlock’s heat is now pressed against the veins of his hand, as though his life force and Sherlock’s can blend. He is warmed by knowing that Sherlock has had this perfectly sized for him for _ages._

“Well all I have to give you at the moment is my skull, but you’ll have to wait, hmm?”

He’s lying. If Sherlock told John at this moment that he needed his skull imminently, the mad scientist could have it, he could rip everything John was straight out of his body, John wouldn’t mind a bit.

“An excellent engagement gift, John. Please tell your mitochondria though, that they are to keep you running as long as I need you”

“Right” He can’t quite manage to meet the tone of Sherlock’s banter. He is terrified at the responsibility of being needed by Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock does not seem as fazed.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock roars through the floorboards. Really, it’s unfair that Sherlock is this functional as he rips the foundations out of John’s life and rebuilds them in his image.

“Sherlock, dear—” comes the familiar warble at the door.

_Mrs. Hudson will be so pleased, she’s thought we were a couple all along…_

“Go tell your infernal neighbor that you’ll have married ones soon too. Tell her too that, yes, I am gay as she has always suspected, and no, I have no interest in her nephew. Finally, you may want to visit your sister for the next week. Week or week and a half John?”

“For what?” John feels dull and slow, and a little furious with this hateful neighbor’s nephew. It is a bit not good to ask much more of his processing ability right now.

“Intensive celebratory fornication.”

Ahhh. Fornication, John has been reliably and enthusiastically told, is something that he has his own particular genius at. Perhaps if he takes that brilliant brain off-line, he can try to keep up in this new mad Sherlockian adventure. The thought comforts him tremendously.

_Three Continents Watson, I’ve missed you. Come level this playing field._

“Make it two weeks, Mrs. Hudson. Please excuse Sherlock.” He offers her a rakish smile that has served him well.

She says something else before departing, and really it is for the best that John doesn’t hear, because he doesn’t have the brain of Sherlock Holmes, and he needs time to _think._

So. Run-down of this morning:

John owes Sherlock his skull, at some point. John has offered Sherlock everything that he is and has, in his own cautious bumbling way. Sherlock has accepted this with great alacrity, snogged the brains right out of him, told him he loved him (well, _shared_ the love he already knew John had for him, the bastard) and proposed…or let him in on the fact that they may already be married.

Here John pauses to look at the beautiful ring gleaming on his finger and smiles. He suspects that the great romantic git has put in _meteorite._

_Something about the solar system survived in that mind palace, eh?_

Great romantic _poncy_ git. The rugby boys will never let him live this ring down.

All in all, this has been a better day than he could have possibly imagined, and John has evidently been handed everything he’s ever privately wished for on a great Sherlock-sized platter.

He glances over at his apparent fiancé and recognizes the symptoms of Sherlock in his mind palace. He’s not sure how he has managed to secure this much luck in his life. Maybe he really did die on those desert sands, and this was his reward… after all, Sherlock has even provided two weeks to uncover all that alabaster skin and have all of that formidable attention directed on himself. Whatever horrors the nuptials would reveal in their respective families and friends would surely be worth it.

He doesn’t startle when he hears the door click open, but it is a narrow thing. Speaking of the horrors of family…

“I hear we have happy news. Mummy sends her exuberant felicitations. It did take rather longer than a week, Doctor Watson, but I suppose that you are a trifle slow on the uptick…”

“Get out.” He tells Mycroft’s smug features. He delights in knowing how swiftly that smugness is about to be erased. “My fiancé has secured us two weeks for, what was it, love?”

“Intensive celebratory fornication,” Sherlock croons, pleased with himself.

“Intensive celebratory fornication.” John repeats, imbuing the phrase with just a touch of naughtiness, knowing how much it will discomfit the British Government himself.

Mycroft turns tail and beats a tactical retreat, which is for the best really, as John has now enough presence of mind to do unspeakable things to his baby brother.


End file.
